


Of Oak and Ash

by Kikislasha, Superkalifragi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Eventual Smut, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-29 00:16:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/680495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kikislasha/pseuds/Kikislasha, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Superkalifragi/pseuds/Superkalifragi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What starts as a mundane day (with only a few strange occurrences) may just lead up to the biggest and most consuming adventures John has ever shared with Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Modulating Meters

"If I were to say: 'the woods decay, the woods decay and fall,' what would that mean to you?" Sherlock’s deep baritone was clipped, but playful.

John looked up from his newspaper and gave his flat mate a long look. Then his focus was back on the reports of ordinary murders, messed up world politics and boring local news.

"I'd say it means that you are in a rather poetic mood today. Which I find amusing...and alarming." With another, slightly mocking look at Sherlock John turned an uncooperative page of The Times, shook out the wrinkles and reached for a cup of Mrs. Hudson's tea.

Sherlock's gaze flicked up from his phone, a corner of his lip curled in approval.

"But surely one can do no harm reciting poems." 

With a sigh John turned another page. The little hairs on the back of his neck tingled and that was a sure sign that something was up. John felt as if he was sliding into one of Sherlock's traps again--something was going on and he didn't know what it was, but he would stumble through this conversation as best he could.

"Surely," he finally replied, trying to sound as if he didn't care, but inwardly John was curious what witty observation Sherlock would pull off now. As frustrated as he sometimes got with Sherlock's brilliant intellect it also amazed him. Sherlock looked at him--that is, studied and stared unabashed--for a long moment before taking a sharp breath in as he stood from his supine position on the chesterfield.

"Boring. You're missing the point." He swatted at the corner of John's newspaper as he neared. "Did you know the simplest commands in our culture are made up of these patterns of stressed syllables? It is in our very nature to say: ‘Go to bed, eat your food, watch out, come here, do this, not that!’ From nothing but a heightened state of emotion." Sherlock drifted across the sitting room, leaned on the mantlepiece and started picking at the skull's ocular cavity.

John had another example of the stressed pattern: ‘Shut up,’ but he remained silent. One of them had to be the adult here. Instead, he folded his paper, put it next to his tea cup and propped his chin on two fingers as he watched his restless friend poke the dead head in the eye.

"That's interesting..." John found he sounded relatively genuine. "But what does this have to do with me?"

"See what you just did demonstrates a 'spondee,’ where extra syllables may be stressed on top of the regular structure, describing a different state of heightened emotion. It's quite a predictable indicator of human mood." Sherlock was watching him out of the corner of his eye as a long finger traced along the skull's brow. "And the majority of the population don't even know they're doing it." His smile asked _did you know?_ in that rather annoying way of his. John tilted his head and knitted his brows, as if he was straining to listen to faint music.

"So, what does my...'spondee' tell you about my mood then?" he finally asked, just the tiniest bit waspish, resigned that Sherlock had him, again. Was there anything the man didn't know? Apart from the fact that the moon revolved around the earth and other basic knowledge of the solar system...

"Too easy, John." But that wouldn't stop him, obviously. "You're in quite a relaxed position, so largely, one would argue that your mood itself was not anything exceptional. But that for the presence of more metered speech, there is a much more provocative emotional connection than your posture would allow. Due to the utterly abysmal headlines in the news today, it cannot be caused by any allegiance to any issues of morality--which the posture of your hurt shoulder indicates, where your army training shows, by the way--but more of duty. Oh, John…" Sherlock's smile turned mischievous, "You don't suffer through my deductions of you as a chore, do you?" He laughed shortly. "But I suppose I should be flattered, since it would mean that you are responding to _my_ influence, and since you have yet to flare your nostrils, I'd say you find it charming as opposed to alarming." He grinned.

John needed a moment to follow Sherlock's argumentation. Then he needed another moment to decide whether he should be annoyed and irritated that Sherlock was showing off again--or laugh and take it in stride. Inevitably he went with the latter. Even though Sherlock could get on his nerves like no one else it was also hard to stay mad at him. Indeed, he had his own peculiar charm. Shaking his head, John reached for his tea to take a sip and then leaned back in his favorite chair.

"You seem in a good mood today. Got a new case?"

Sherlock's expression hardened minutely and he hummed.

"Lestrade had an issue connecting his lead witness in a fraud case with the perpetrator, but that is only expected of him. Nobody interesting has been murdered in weeks. So no, no new case." He said slowly and bitterly.

"That's a shame." John said sympathetically. Then realized what he had just said, and cleared his throat, patting the newspaper. "Anyway, nothing interesting in the papers either. I suppose it will be a quiet Sunday evening then. Haven't had that in a while. Got any plans?" he tried to cheer his friend up. Sherlock only lifted his eyebrow: _I just said I didn't have a case. Of course I don't have plans._

John didn’t have a problem reading the silent message. He sat up straight in his chair, folding his hands in his lap.

"Well then, why don't we go out? The weather's still kind of nice. At least it isn't raining." Which was something for London.

John didn’t expect an answer, and was beginning to think of what they might need from the shops, as he’d probably want to run a few errands if Sherlock was just going to be lazing around or running experiments.

"Alright." Sherlock pushed off the mantlepiece towards the front door.

"Alright?" Startled, John followed him. Sherlock agreeing to change his daily schedule was about as rare as a clean countertop, and just as noteworthy. "Alright." He caught up and grabbed his coat. 

On their way out they passed by Mrs. Hudson who just came up to bring them a tray of fresh tea. She looked no less surprised when John informed her that they were going out as he hurried after Sherlock who lead the way with determined, long strides as if he were on a mission. Outside, John finished zipping up his coat, had a look left and right down Baker Street and put his hands deep into his pockets. It was a bit chilly. 

"So. Where do we go?"

"Yes, you didn't seem prepared for that eventuality." Sherlock stated with a grin, his attention on the street as he hailed a cab. He didn't acknowledge the chill, his coat and scarf billowing with the slight breeze "But a thought has just come to me, most fortunately, it seems." He pulled open the back door of the cab and slid into the far side. "South Kensington." He directed. John got comfortable as the car got back on the street.

"What's in South Kensington?" John asked, fumbling with his seat belt.

"A woman who owes me a favour." 

The cab ride was not long, and the trendy restaurant Sherlock directed them to was again, not what he was expecting. But then, Sherlock knew a lot of people. For very odd reasons. Despite the sign clearly indicating closed on the door, Sherlock waltzed in like he owned the place.

"I-I think it's closed." John pointed at the sign, to no avail. With a sigh, John just followed Sherlock into the restaurant that he absolutely wasn't dressed for. By now he should've gotten used to Sherlock's unpredictable moves. But then again, he probably never would. As he slowly followed his friend, John had a thorough look through the restaurant, trying to imitate Sherlock's deducing stares. All he could see however was that this was a tasteful, relatively expensive place that served international cuisine. It didn't tell him anything about why they were here at all, so he had no choice but to wait and see what was coming next. Or he could ask. There was a slight chance that Sherlock might actually answer. "What're we doing here? I suppose we won't be eating, it's... _closed._ "

"Sherlock Holmes..." A woman's voice announced from above, both men peered towards the balcony of the second floor. "I never expected you to take me up on it. Leave it to you to crash the night of the Awards Reception. Cheeky bugger. And who's this?" An attractive brunette leaned on the railing above them, dressed skillfully in a simple black dress with a stunning silhouette and an unassuming string of pearls dripping from one wrist. Sherlock's eyes glinted up at her, as if he delighted in being untimely.

"This is John. He insisted that we 'go out.’ I immediately thought of your very kind offer." 

John was not feeling comfortable but half-heartedly lifted his hand and offered a meek hello. How did Sherlock know this person? The woman was gorgeous. So the matter of her connection to Sherlock was even more pressing. Smiling at her as she descended the spiral staircase connecting the two levels, John whispered through gritted teeth into Sherlock's direction:

" _This_ woman owes you a favour?"


	2. Concerning Habits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John isn't prepared for Sherlock's sudden dinner plans, but decides to take advantage of a chatty Sherlock.

**Chapter II - Concerning Habits**

_"This woman owes you a favour?"_

Sherlock didn't answer him, of course. _This_ woman though, seemed to be quite familiar with him.

"Well, you did say you were often inconvenient. I'm sure I can find a room to put aside for..." the woman smiled, sizing John up quickly, "The two of you. I'll have Abbey look after you, and I'll have Anatole send out a selection from the menu. If you trust me to look after your dinner, that is." Sherlock gave a short chuckle. 

"You do claim to have expertise, and there is evidence that supports that." He conceded and she hummed in consideration, and seemed to be satisfied as she turned to lead them into the back of the restaurant. She pushed open a large glass and iron wrought door to reveal a good sized private room.

"Make yourselves at home; I hope you don't mind if I return to my arrangements. There's so much to do." She grinned. "Lovely to meet you, John." They heard her chuckle lightly as she turned on her heel to return to the main dining room. As she left, Sherlock draped his jacket over the back of a chair as he started to indeed make himself at home, reading the question John was about to ask all over his face.

"That, John, is Natasha Betton. I may have had a hand in securing her a rather important position that gave her the opportunity to become one of London's most successful restauranteurs." 

"Do I want to know how you helped her?" John asked, taking off his jacket and following Sherlock's example. That woman seemed classy; apparently she was rich too, and her attitude reminded John of _The_ Woman.

"Probably not. It was not my intention to do so, of course, but rather in reaction to exposing the rather corrupt and manipulative management. However, she does seem grateful, doesn't she?" Sherlock paced the room slowly and methodically, taking in the decor, seeing connections only discernible to him. He picked at the carved end of the back of a chair. "Is this what you had in mind, by the way?" 

"I'm not sure," John confessed, having a long look through the room. It was an exclusive and expensive restaurant. Hopefully Sherlock didn't expect him to pay for this... With a sigh John relaxed back in his chair. He replayed meeting Natasha, was there anything else he could deduce from what he had seen? Anything that would tell him more about this woman and Sherlock? There weren't many women in his roommate's life, apart from Mrs. Hudson... Natasha Betton. Was it just him or had she been flirting with Sherlock? A deep frown appeared on John's forehead. He stiffened, suddenly. 

"Wait, why was that woman _chuckling_ at us? She doesn't think that we...does she?" Agitated, John looked towards his friend.

Sherlock didn't find it necessary to answer the question, suppressing a laugh himself. John's conclusion was cut short however, as Abbey (presumably) entered with drinks.

“I’ve heard you have a rather discerning palette, Mister Holmes. And may be familiar with our bourbon." Abbey smiled confidently as she looked at both of them, and from the quirk of her eyebrow as she looked between the two of them she seemed to have the same idea about them as her boss. "I can mix you anything else you'd like, in addition." She set down their drinks, along with a small decanter. John threw a flustered look at her and then to Sherlock, then he turned back to her, gesturing.

"Thank you, but we're not together. I mean we're here, together but we're not--" He stopped, taking a deep breath. "We're not a couple." How many times did he have to explain that now? John didn't know. And he still hadn't been able to establish a routine to it and clear up that mistake casually and smoothly. He was still stuttering like a bloody school boy! And the waitress even didn't look like she believed one word!

"So...no other drinks?" Abbey looked half amused, and half worried. Sherlock shook his head.

"This will be fine, Abbey." It wasn't until she had left again that Sherlock turned back to face John. "You have this habit, John. Did you know?" 

"What? What habit?" John snapped. Why wasn't Sherlock bothered by that? Why was it always him who had to clear things up? John decided that he needed that bourbon now, desperately, and pulled himself the bottom of a glass that he emptied in one go. Sherlock's mouth twisted as he tried to keep from grinning. He reached over to pour John another drink.

"You're so concerned about what people think of you. It's almost endearing." He raised his own glass to his lips.

"Everyone except you cares about what other people think about them." John emptied that second glass, too, but gradually he relaxed. He just hoped the waitress had been far away enough to not hear Sherlock call him 'endearing'...which wouldn't much help his case. The glass still in hand, John furrowed his brow. "Doesn't it bother you?"

"If by ‘it’ you mean: other people’s assumptions of the details of our relationship, of course it doesn't bother me. It bothers you, however.” He sat back into his chair, his glass held aloft as he read John easily. “Why? You yourself are not homophobic, as you have both explained to me as well as demonstrated. You also have no trouble finding yourself women to whom you temporarily attach yourself. Shouldn't that be satisfactory?" 

"It's not about being homophobic. If you were a woman and people assumed we were together I'd still try to correct them," John replied, taking another sip. The bourbon was expensive, he could tell, even though he didn’t often drink it. "Because we are not together." He paused. "As a couple."

"And that bothers you to think about?" Sherlock challenged, taking another sip as he kept his expression blank.

"Yes, of course it does!” John rolled his eyes and plunked his glass back onto the table. “You're always complaining about people being stupid and overlooking the 'most obvious' clues and you made it your goal to expose the truth, help the police--how is this any different? I'm just telling people the truth." 

"By yelling at them when they take your drink order?" Sherlock narrowed his gaze at John. "Ineffective."

"But she was looking at us," John pointed out and crossed his arms over his chest. He shook his head, uncertain why they were discussing this.

"John listen to yourself, you sound ridiculous." Sherlock finished his drink, considering the empty glass for a moment, eyes narrowed at the thin golden line coalescing at the bottom of the glass. He smiled to himself, before returning his focus to John. "I find it quite useful, people's wrong assumptions. Otherwise I would be forced to deal with people like Natasha Betton viewing me as ‘attainable’. Imagine." He shook his head and poured himself another drink. Then Abbey was back, with a tray of plates, glasses and another bottle: the wine pairing for the course.

"Anatole wishes to send his kindest regards from the kitchen, and an appetizer of sea scallops, served with a gingered pea puree and cilantro. The wine is the Chateauneuf-du-Pape from Chateau de Beaucaste." She placed a large plate in between John and Sherlock, both portions arranged artfully on the platter. Sherlock looked over at John, his eyebrow quirked, as if daring John to make a fuss about having to share a plate with him as well. "Enjoy, gentlemen." Abbey smiled and excused herself from the room again.

"Fine. I give up. Bon appétit." Shrugging in defeat, John emptied his glass and shifted on his chair to get ready to eat, but then he hesitated. "How do you eat this?" Usually John preferred less complicated food. Inwardly he wondered if he should regret going out with Sherlock. At least his friend seemed to have fun, judging from his amused smile.

Sherlock, without looking at John (for that probably would have felt completely condescending), picked up the center scallop between his fingers, balanced it perfectly a moment to spill a spoonful of the puree on it's top, then popped the thing in its entirety into his mouth. Then he looked at John, a fastidious charm in his expression as he savoured the morsel.

With a sigh, John followed Sherlock’s example. He was very skeptical about the food at first, but once he managed to get the pea puree adorned scallop in his mouth he took a moment to reconsider.

"It's good," he assessed, pouring some wine into his glass to follow it. Sherlock's eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled.

"A connoisseur like Anatole." He pushed his glass across the table to join John's. "Understands the science of the palette to stimulate responses in the brain. Plates are designed top to bottom with an ultimate goal in mind to create a sense of togetherness of the experience of eating." He lifted his wineglass (now full, thanks to John) and peered through it for a moment before he lowered it to his nose and breathed in deeply. "A combination of tastes, smells and visual details meant to cause satisfaction and feelings of euphoria through chemical release in the pleasure centers of the brain." He took a sip of the wine. Swallowed. "So yes, it is good." 

"That's what I said." John smiled, chewing his luxury food. "So, what's so bad about flirting with--what's her name--that waitress woman. Maybe a girlfriend would do you good." Sherlock was in a good mood and maybe John could pry some information from him. Usually Sherlock just blocked any of John's attempts to find out about former relationships. Or he completely ignored John's questions. In fact, John worried that he might do just that as Sherlock reached for another scallop.

"John, remember when I said I didn't have girlfriends?" He asked, spooning puree meticulously. "That meant I don't have girlfriends. Literally, metaphorically," He paused as he considered, "Sexually. Any questions?"

"Actually...yes. Hundreds." John emptied his glass and reached in for his second scallop as well. "Why not? Did you ever try that? You might like it. It would help resolve some tension," he gesticulated with the scallop before he popped it in his mouth. Sherlock's eyebrows drew together as he watched John, puzzled. 

"I don't like women, John." He looked unsure why he had to explain something that really ought to be so clear.

"But how do you know if you never tried? And you did like The Woman, don't tell me you didn't. I know you still keep her phone."

Sherlock's jaw tightened for a moment, but then he chose not to ignore it, or deny it--like he was wont to do when asked about personal details. Which was a new thing, and John admirably took it in stride. 

"She was...an opposite of me, John. It would have been foolish to sacrifice so many things of importance to spend a single night with her. An intriguing folly, at its best, and at its worst," He paused, as if he could see a list of things he considered in the 'worst' situation, "Completely catastrophic." He looked back at John as he exhaled ( _clearing the screen_ , John thought). "I have discovered no other interest towards women." 

"How about men then?" John asked carefully. They had had a similar conversation the second night after they’d met, but John had barely known Sherlock then and the discussion had taken an awkward turn. It was just very hard for John to comprehend that someone could live his life entirely without craving human contact in that way. 

"It's more likely." Sherlock admitted, after a long pause and finally popped his scallop in his mouth. He wiped his fingertips on his napkin as he chewed quickly to resume. "Though that does not say much, statistically. I find a high percentage of males entirely dull as well." Sherlock looked back up when John choked and began to cough. John reached for his wine glass and took a large sip and was finally able to speak again.

"It's more likely? So you don't...know?"

Sherlock tilted his head as he tried to discern what John's expression meant.

"Don't know what? If I am _gay_? What would it mean if I bore such a label? I have one friend. Do you think it's likely that I would be able to sustain a relationship with a ‘boyfriend’ as well?" He paused for a moment, as if expecting John to laugh, "It's preposterous. People generally stay away for a reason, John. And that reason is that I just don't like people." He lifted his glass and finished it.

"Maybe you're asexual," John offered. He finished eating and wiped his fingers and mouth with his napkin. There was a strange (but not bad) feeling in his chest that had grown since Sherlock had attested to being uninterested in women. He had become conscious of it under Sherlock’s assessing gaze though. John had learned that sometimes, Sherlock needed to stare at him to study his expression--but it didn't always mean it was comfortable. This, for some odd reason, was. Due to Sherlock sharing something about himself in conversation, possibly.

"Perhaps." Sherlock acquiesced after a moment, but he didn't sound completely convinced of it. "But I don't agree with certain definitions of that. I wouldn't describe myself as one disinterested in sex as a concept. No, sex is fascinating. Chemically. It’s staggering how we are driven as a species to derive pleasure from copulation beyond the needs to breed simply for the naturally-produced euphoria. The power of that John. I repeat, staggering." 

"Staggering indeed. Did you... I mean, have you actually experienced any of that?" John asked, slightly flustered and trying to hide it by covering his mouth with his fingers, hoping he looked professionally interested. Like a doctor. Not like a too-curious friend. 

Abbey chose that moment to come back in with a second course, damn her. She placed her tray down on the edge of the table. 

"Enjoying yourselves?" She smiled, and Sherlock mirrored it, saving John from having to do anything but continue to hide behind his fingers.

"Anatole's clam chowder, to follow the seafood theme," She chatted pleasantly as she served the dishes, "Paired with the 2007 Meursault Les Tesson." She paused, as if hoping they would say something, then, with the grace only a waiter could have left the room again after realizing she had interrupted their conversation. Sherlock watched her leave, then turned back to John. He seemed amused.

"Are you asking me if I am a virgin, John?"

_...to be continued_


	3. Catch and Release

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just how much can John uncover before Sherlock gets too flighty?

_“Are you asking me if I am a virgin John?”_

"What--no. No, I don't--I mean, how should I know, I never assumed--well, actually I did--but as I said, I don't know." John quickly reached for the wine, filled another glass and downed it. If this continued, he’d be drunk before the main course. "Even if you were, that's totally fine, but I didn't say that you are."

Sherlock watched John's flustered state for a moment before continuing, thoughtfully taking a pull from his wineglass as well.

"Physiologically, I am not," Sherlock picked up his spoon, stirred the thick chowder to display the texture, "And before you ask me how it is possible to have had sex and not know whether or not I am gay, I ask you to first remember my dislike of such sexual labels." He lifted his spoon, leveling it as he blew across it. "And besides, I don't remember.” His tone was much more clipped and he scrutinized the raised spoonful. John’s silence seemed to unsettle him, so he continued, “It was in the midst of a heroin high, and the only reason I knew was the condom was still on." Now it was clear Sherlock was avoiding John's eyes. The rim of the wineglass was very intriguing at the moment. "Well, _a_ condom was still on." 

John had been wise to not hurry to indulge in the soup. As it was, he was having a hard enough time controlling an outburst. However, his friend had finally decided to open up to him and share that experience, so John did his best to not judge him. Instead he adopted a neutral expression, cleared his throat and clung to his wine glass.

"...I see. Must have been rough times."

"Yes, one could say that." Sherlock agreed, then being the first of them to try the soup. He took a moment to taste, then swallow. His gaze moved over the silverware. "Which is why I no longer use heroin. Because it turns out…" He paused, "It was very rough." He flicked his attention upwards again, as if the just realized he’d been avoiding John’s eyes. "Try the soup, John. It's also _good_." 

"Good choice," John nodded, quickly taking a spoonful of his soup so he didn't have to look at Sherlock. Here he was again, feeling awkward. The soup was good. But not nearly as interesting as Sherlock's story, and even though John knew he'd regret it he had to take advantage of Sherlock being so talkative--it would be a crime not to. "So beyond that...nothing?" He briefly looked up from his soup without lifting his head.

It looked like Sherlock was justifying whether to continue. Which meant that of course there was more. Sherlock took a deep breath in preparation:

"There have been both experiments and observations previous to and since _that_ experience, though none would completely satisfy the full definition of sex. Because I initially knew so little of the act, due to the lack of personal experience, I had to negotiate ways to gather research from other sources as well. It factors into many investigations--and discrepancies of my youth caused me to be ignorant of basic physical mechanics of it." He explained, watching and then consuming the remaining wine in his glass. He poured himself another without hesitation.

"... I... see." It was more of a question than a statement. John tried to look as if he knew exactly what Sherlock meant though. If it looked as though he couldn't follow then Sherlock would get bored and stop talking to him. Which might not be the worst thing... "What exactly do you mean when you say 'basic physical mechanics?'" John had seen that look before. It was the look Sherlock got every time the topic of the solar system was brought up.

"Other than rudimentary knowledge about the act taught at Brompton Academy, I did not know…" he paused, trying to find the least embarrassing words to explain. "What entrance was used, nor what to expect it to look like." 

"Understandably so." John had now switched to wine entirely, refilling Sherlock's empty glass as well. He felt pleasantly dizzy and that was probably the alcohol. "But during your... observations and experiments... didn't you feel anything? Like, perhaps excitement?" Sherlock's brow furrowed momentarily. 

"Oh, you mean, as in voyeurism. Being aroused in the state of non-participation. No. Pornography does nothing for me. It was merely to gain information." 

"So... you never get excited. Ever?" John was not a regular consumer of pornography, but he’d obviously seen some before, especially when he'd been younger. And maybe every once and a while for...urges, that he had to satisfy every now and then. 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, the first sign of getting defensive.

"I don't keep keep a schedule to track my arousal, John." He said with a pout, just as Abbey walked in the door again. If she heard it, her tray and the arrival of the main course masked it well.

"Is everything to your liking so far?" She smiled, not making direct eye contact.

"Fine, everything's fine," John hurriedly assured. He just wanted her to leave. But before that... "Can you bring another bottle please? Of something stronger, if you have it."

"More bourbon, perhaps?" She nodded, "I'll let you two tuck in." She cleared the empty dishes quickly and without explaining their main course. John was relieved. Sherlock unfolded his napkin from underneath his silverware, unfazed. After she left John relaxed back on his chair.

"I didn't ask about keeping track. I was just wondering if you ever got aroused... in general."

"Well of course. It's a natural reaction to certain stimuli, why would that matter?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. He often got sulky when defensive too, and now John would have to work harder to keep him from closing off again. 

"It matters because it means that you are not asexual," John concluded, his speech slightly slurred. "Also if you determine which stimuli cause your arousal you know what attracts you..." Sherlock was starting to get difficult, so John smiled at him to keep him amused. This started to seem like a bit of a therapy session, though. As brilliant as Sherlock was when it came to analyzing other people as slow and blind he seemed when it came to his own needs sometimes...The appearance of Sherlock's blank-mask meant that he was considering very precisely what John said. Didn't want John to see.

"And how would that help? What am I supposed to do with that information?" He challenged.

"Well...you might have come across that bit of information during your studies, but...sexual activities release endorphins," John pointed out slowly, searching Sherlock's face whether his message got across. Sherlock's gaze narrowed and flicked between both of John's eyes, his expression revealing nothing. 

"I am aware of that fact, thank you, John." He paused, as if waiting for John to continue, and continue John did, but not before taking a deep breath and puffing out his cheeks, his forehead wrinkled in despair. 

"Since we established the fact that you are, technically and physically, capable of participating in sexually motivated...activities you might find that if you decide to engage in these activities you'll experience the release of endorphins as well..." Sherlock's strained expression wasn't very encouraging, thus John just gave up and shrugged "It's fun." before he emptied his full wine glass in one go. Sherlock carefully catalogued each expression John made. 

"I've made it clear that a sexual partner is out of the question--for numerous reasons--so what would your advice be?" His eyebrows drew together ever so slightly--not in a pout, which appeared a moment later to hide it, but probably because he really wanted to know. 

For a moment John just wordlessly stared at his friend. When he realized that Sherlock was completely serious he just as refilled his wine glass with the last few ounces of the bourbon. Then he took a large sip, clung to his glass and leaned over the table. Yes, perhaps now he’d be drunk enough to think giving _The Talk_ to the world's most brilliant man was a good idea.

"You’ve got two functioning hands."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 

"I am aware of the concept of wanking, John." He folded his arms after pushing his plate away petulantly. "I have also concluded that it is not a reliable method of…release." A touch of colour lifted on his cheek, and John wasn't sure if it was because Sherlock was angry at being assumed naive of something, or whether he'd just said wanking. Sherlock huffed and looked away at the wall. 

"Not a reliable method of release...?" John echoed with an uncertain frown. "What's the problem?... Before you answer just let me get this straight: Are we talking theory here.. or did you actually...?" John felt a major headache coming on.

"Yes, of course I've wanked before!" Sherlock raised his voice over John's questions, looking defensive. The quiet that followed contained just enough murmur to make them realize they may have been overheard. Sherlock breathed in, considered. He continued much more calmly, his voice clipping the syllables precisely. "I did not have much success in it. In that I rarely derived any large measure of enjoyment from it. I found it rather boring and tedious, and generally, that is considered to have a rather negative effect on the act itself."  

"Maybe...you weren't relaxed enough.” John said, his voice lowered and slurred. “Don't try to see it as one of your experiments. Just... I don't know. Make yourself comfortable, try not to analyze what you do and...just do it.” If anyone had told him he was going to get drunk with Sherlock and discuss how to masturbate, John would have laughed in their face. And yet it didn’t feel as awkward as it should have. 

"Is that what you do?" Sherlock’s brow crinkled minutely as his focus retreated inwards for a moment. He was cross-checking again, another thing John had gotten used to. It was a much more disjointed way to have a conversation than anything ‘normal.’ John thought he liked it. It was a relatively short pause, as Sherlock took a quick breath and continued, "What do you think about, or rather, what is the motivation behind it?" 

"You can think about whatever you like," John said, blinking lazily. "Whatever you find attractive. There's something you find attractive, right?" Sherlock huffed at John's lack of specificity in the answer, but seemed determined. 

"Yes." He answered impatiently, hoping John had more to offer. 

"Well then, it's really no big deal. If you feel a certain... urge or desire, you make sure to get some privacy and then you relax, think about something that attracts you and well... wank."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, as if constructing a model of the scenario in his mind. He didn't speak for long moment. 

"John, you make things sound so simple." His tone did not make it a compliment, and he stood, his flatware clinking at the movement. His attention was inward again, even as he dropped a large note on the table, "Stay, and try the dessert. It's what Anatole is known for, and before you do something as obvious as worry, the bill is covered." It was more than John usually got as he unfurled his great coat and swept through the door.


	4. Reflex and Instinct

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the conversation at dinner, it seems Sherlock's curiosity is piqued, and John is in no condition to say no to that.

John didn’t have a chance to protest as Sherlock abruptly _(and rudely)_ left, but he wasn't really surprised. It was one of Sherlock's many odd ( _and annoying_ ) habits. With a mental shrug, John finished his glass and tried to stand and follow Sherlock out, but found that he wasn't very stable on his feet. Squeezing his eyes shut, he leaned on the table, trying to focus his vision. 

"Uh, hello?"

Abbey wasn't far out of the room (and had probably heard the most awkward phrases of their conversation), and got John back to balance quickly. She seemed quite practiced dealing with inebriated customers, for the next thing John realized, he was propped up with a steaming cup of rich black coffee and an ironically thin slice of Anatole's famous cheesecake. Just sobering enough to get to a cab. Natasha walked him out herself, a hand on his shoulder. 

"It really was lovely meeting you, John. Sherlock seems like a lot to handle…and you seem quite good at it. He looks happier than when I met him." She opened the back door of the cab for John, held it as he climbed inside. "I doubt he's a very easy man to make happy." 

"You have no idea," John grunted, feeling a bit miserable--this time he didn't bother to point out that they were just friends. Last minute he remembered his manners and thanked her for dinner, before he gave the driver his address. The cab ride back to Baker Street was a bit of a blur, but John opened his window a bit and the fresh air helped him clear his head a bit. When he stumbled up the stairs to his room though, he found that he was still quite drunk, though. He was a bit surprised to find Sherlock in the sitting room of their shared flat.

"What you doing here?" he asked, while trying to peel out of his jacket.

Sherlock was sitting with John's laptop balanced on his knee, cross-legged on the chesterfield. 

"Research." His fingers danced along the keyboard with a flurry, before he narrowed his gaze at the screen again. 

"What are you researching?" John flopped down next to him, squinting at Sherlock but not expecting an answer. Sherlock seemed immersed in his task and it was surprising that he had even bothered to answer John's first question. Naked, entwining forms on the screen, though silenced, answered for him instead. 

John squinted at the screen and had he been sober his jaw would have dropped and he'd have excused himself to go to sleep--but he was bloody wasted and he really didn’t want to tackle more stairs _quite_ yet. He watched Sherlock's brow drew together as he refined his search parameters again, flicking between several windows and tabs of pornography. 

"Found anything interesting?" John inquired and prepared for a second attempt to get out of his jacket. Sherlock hummed noncommittally. 

"There is a gross amount of uninteresting pornography on the internet. Even in your own search history. Really, John, don't be boring," Sherlock reminded John as most of his focus stayed on the screen, pulling up a few windows of interest, "But I have narrowed down a few intriguing options." He gestured to the screen, "The fact that I don't care for any of these people still remains, so why would I become aroused at any of this, save for perhaps physical references in a contrived circumstance..." His brow furrowed again, and he sounded frustrated. He clicked the trackpad harder. 

"My... my own history?" The uncooperative jacket wasn't all that interesting anymore. "Excuse _my_ sexual f-fantasies for not being more exciting and up to _your_ expectations," John pouted, because there was just no use in trying to scold Sherlock about ignoring personal boundaries. "Why don't you try to find your own porn." He sulked angrily, still stuck in the arms of his jacket. Sherlock chose not to hear him, and had enlarged a player where two girls were entwined on a bed. It was from John's browser history. 

"This, for example," He unpaused the player, and unmuted the sound to unleash the one girl's orgasmic wail. He let it play for a few moments. "is one of the few real orgasms in your collection, and probably the only intriguing moment in the lot. Easily distinguishable--" He paused the video again, the girl's fingers clutched in her lover's hair, "By the unfocused gaze, the tension release here, here and here in her face and neck," he pointed to the spots on the screen indicative, "and the flush of blood along her cheeks and shoulders, especially." He opened another window, determined to prove a point. "It's the exact same expression here," He pointed this time to a man being bent over a desk, panting heavily while a man with his face out of frame thrust into him from behind. "It’s as if they forget they’re being filmed for that moment." He sounded as if he found the phenomenon both mystifying and amusing. 

"Turn that off!" John grabbed the laptop and shut it with a fair amount of force. He jumped up from the couch and took his computer to the kitchen, out of reach. "I told you to stop analyzing! It's not that hard!" His gaze wandered back to Sherlock, then it turned contemplative for a few seconds--and finally determined. "Right. Shut your eyes."

Sherlock looked startled; yes, that was it. After a moment to a raise an eyebrow, however, he closed his eyes.

"Right." John repeated, huffed heavily and walked behind Sherlock. He brought his hands to Sherlock’s shoulders and he started to knead them. It was a bit clumsy, but John was a great masseur, a fact his former girlfriends had never tired to point out (and occasionally abused,) "Don't think about anything. Just sit there. Relax." John heard Sherlock sigh, and even though it was out of exasperation (and a hint of doubt), it was a start, because even as he breathed out, a bit of tension slipped from his shoulders. 

"It's impossible not to think about anything, John." He pointed out, but it was out of habit rather than reproach. 

"Shut up," John reprimanded, which caused Sherlock’s mouth to twitch in a tiny grin, and he pressed a bit harder down on the muscles than was necessary.  Now he was a bit at a loss of how to proceed but he decided to make it up as he went. It just seemed like a good idea. To a drunk person. "There's nothing on your mind. No case, no murder, no riddles, no mutilated bodies--nothing. Watch the black dots behind your eyelids."

"Entoptic phenomenon..." Sherlock muttered, and must have worked hard to not say anything else on the topic.

"Black dots," John emphasized, keeping up with his massage. Sherlock was awfully tense, there were so many knots in his shoulders and neck...all those tight shirts probably. "Follow the dots with your eye. Watch them drift..." John closed his eyes and followed his own advice. He always found this method to be very relaxing, so maybe Sherlock would too. "Are you relaxed?"

"No," Sherlock said, and John suspected that would be it then, but instead he tilted his neck slightly forward, "But I am starting to. Don't stop."

"All right." That was at least something. John was being optimistic and doubled his efforts. "Stop focusing on the dots and let your gaze drift. Does something appear out of the darkness? Shapes? Images? Maybe...sounds or a feeling?"

"Don't be ridiculous John." Sherlock's shoulders shifted under John's hands, but Sherlock remained seated. With his eyes closed, John's voice had nuances that he didn't usually hear, and he could discern the drunken lilt from the genuine care in his tone. He could have launched into the several theories behind the shifting shapes one saw with closed eyes, but it had suddenly become more important to just keep John talking. "What would it feel like if I were to feel something?"

"Well...you'd feel...warm." John furrowed his brows, tilting his head as if listening to something, as his fingers dug into the sore muscles languidly. Sherlock leaned into the rhythmic squeezes of John's hands. The slow circular pattern was different from before, and Sherlock felt himself be pulled back into the cushion of the sofa, and closer to John. His back relaxed and he tilted his head to give John access to the stiff muscles in his neck. John continued: 

"You’d start to feel relaxed, but maybe a bit...restless at the same time.” John paused a moment, but Sherlock for once seemed content to listen, so he sought the best ways to describe what _arousal_ felt like, “A feeling of excitement would start to grow in your abdomen. Your pulse would quicken, your breathing accelerate... You might start to perspire."

Sherlock breathed in deep, and felt a jolt when he realized John breathed with him. His lips parted with a surprised exhale, and a feeling did start to grow in his abdomen, his pulse quickened. 

"And if it continued...?" His voice was affected, but at the moment, he couldn't bring himself to correct it. John’s hands squeezed his trapezius muscles to the brink of pain, before pressing insistently upwards, along the back of his neck. Sherlock’s head dropped forward to his chest, giving John more access. John seemed seemed to be encouraged by Sherlock’s passivity.

"Your skin might start to tingle pleasantly as the image in your head becomes clearer. Your senses may become heightened, especially what you feel.” Sherlock's breath caught as he listened to John describe what his body was doing. It was ridiculous and arousing that he knew, and Sherlock was quickly losing the ability to explain it.

“You might feel a little dizzy, and...get an erection." John explained, trying to remain clinical sounding at least. Sherlock’s hand moved to the top of his thigh as his hips lifted a little at John's words. John failed to notice his own trousers getting a little tight as he tried to concentrate solely on Sherlock’s stiff shoulders. 

"Usually you would show other signs of excitement, like the hardening of...nipples." The pause was almost nonexistent and John wouldn't have been caught dead saying the word 'nipples' had he not been drunk. It drew the world in to an intimate level, and Sherlock swallowed thickly. 

"That’s a good time to start touching yourself--wherever you like. The most intense experience will spring from touching your erection.” John's words were practically permission, and Sherlock dared to rub at his now insistent erection through his trousers.

“Depending on what feels good for you, you can grab it harder, rub it... Sometimes it will cause you to moan--or breathe heavier..."

Sherlock wasn't expecting the intense sensation of it, and bit his bottom lip, his hips pressing up harder as he listened to John. He panted, still silent so he wouldn't miss a single sound. His cheeks were flushed furiously, and he felt a tightness in his abdomen as John dug his fingers hard into his shoulders, and the pressure and friction against his cock built so fast, he wasn't able to bite back the moan that escaped his lips as he tilted his head against John's wrist. 

And then he was coming, with John's hands on his shoulders and his pajama bottoms still on, and for a moment, he didn't think anything, and the first thing he thought when he could again that he would have to apologize to John for getting that wrong.

Sherlock’s moan made John go weak in the knees. A shudder ran down his spine and he thought that it was probably the sexiest sound he had ever heard--before a cold dowse of reality hit him. Opening his eyes, John’s hands stilled, and he felt a bit as if he had just woken from a dream. Also, he was shamefully aware of his own erection that poked against the back of the sofa. Retracting his hands, he cleared his throat. 

"Well, something like that." Only then did he realize what had just happened.

Sherlock didn't look relaxed anymore, and at the removal of John's hands, had stiffened up tighter than before. There was a moment’s pause, perhaps considering what to acknowledge, perhaps waiting for John to say something. 

 

Before he could, Sherlock decided to retreat to safety. With a speed that seemed previously improbable, Sherlock was up, off the sofa and forcibly slamming the door to his room shut. They weren't going to talk about it, apparently. 

"Bugger!" John cursed under his breath, raising a hand to his forehead. He didn't feel drunk anymore, at all. This had sobered him up quite effectively. For a moment he contemplated whether he should try to talk to Sherlock. He walked to Sherlock’s door uncertainly, attempted to knock, then turned to go to his own room. Eventually he paced back down the stairs and knocked briskly. 

"Sherlock?" he asked, biting his lip and straining his ears to hear any sounds from within. "Are you--are you all right?"

"Go away, John, I'm thinking." The reply was non-negotiable, and the door was locked when John tried the handle. John rubbed a hand over his mouth, deciding whether he should leave or not but then decided on the former. 

"All right... Well then, good night." He paused, "I'm sorry,” he added, feeling guilty. He waited for a reply but when none came, John went to his own room. Ignoring his own erection, he lay down but it took him a long time until he could finally fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And an illustration of the shoulder rub! Thank you to everyone who's left kudos so far <3  
> xo  
> [](http://s3.photobucket.com/user/phoebedawson/media/ooaaChap4_zpsa863b94e.jpg.html)


	5. Morning Thickness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after "the incident" brings a crabby Sherlock and a frustrated John. And a case.

Morning found John making tea in the kitchen, feeling restless and remorseful. Sherlock's room was still locked, meaning he was still in there or had spent too much effort making it appear he was, so John had decided he'd wait him out, and stood vigil while he made himself breakfast. His head was pounding, and he was regretting (for several reasons) having drank so much the night before. He could hear Mrs. Hudson's television set playing her dailies as he set himself down to the paper and a crumpet. He also heard the knock on the door, and Detective Lestrade's distinctive tones as Mrs. Hudson let him in. He wasn't the only one, Sherlock's door opened briskly to admit him into the sitting room, pajama clad and smarmy; otherwise unruffled. 

"Good of you to wait until a 'decent' hour, Inspector, though unnecessary. You should have called right away, you've wasted hours trying to let your team handle things." He said haughtily, appearing (as always) unsurprised at Lestrade's presence. 

Lestrade professionally ignored the insult as John got up from the table and regarded him with a bit a cold look. There went his opportunity to talk this through with Sherlock... Not that John was too keen on it, but they lived together. They had to sort this out sooner or later and John wanted to get it over with. Sherlock seemed to have other plans, however.

"We got a case," Lestrade announced superfluously. "I might need your advice."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the Inspector, as if judging whether or not Lestrade was being sarcastic or purposefully obtuse. It took him a moment before his attention snapped elsewhere, and he breezed by Lestrade, his housecoat tie trailing along the floor after him. 

"Afraid I can't. Terribly busy." 

"Wha-? Come on..." Lestrade lifted his hands in a gesture that was half desperate, half exasperated. He hated it when Sherlock Holmes went all _diva_ on him... "It’s a locked room murder." He hoped that would tweak Sherlock’s curiosity, but to his disappointment, Sherlock started rattling beakers and test tubes in the kitchen, as if he hadn't heard. Lestrade turned to John and made a pitiable expression. John gave him only a small shake of his head. "James Leed, computer programmer found dead in his home office. By a bloody _crossbow_ bolt. No signs of entry or struggle, and no murder weapon." He tried again, dangling pieces of information like bait. Still nothing from the kitchen. "Sherlock." Lestrade huffed. Sherlock finally turned around. 

"I said I'm busy Lestrade. Take John, if you really feel shamefully inept. I'm sure he has nothing better to do today." He snapped, and from the fridge brought out a misshapen package, suspiciously leaking a yellow pus-like substance from the brown paper wrapping. 

"You know what? Let's go." John grabbed the Detective Inspector by the arm and forcefully walked him out the door with annoyed strides. With Sherlock being an insulting idiot like this he didn't want to stay anywhere near him. Also, he might explode in Sherlock's face, and then Sherlock would be all witty and superior which would only frustrate John more... So it was the best to distract himself. Lestrade allowed himself to be escorted from the flat, and sighed heavily when he slid into the driver's side of his car. He watched John climb in beside him, a determined expression on his face. 

"He used to be a lot worse you know. Before you came along, that is." He started the engine and checked the traffic before pulling out. "Though I'm sure that's not much of a comfort to you."

"No. No it isn't." John let his hand fall down on the armrest of the car door, but then he sighed. Actually, it was kind of comforting, in a way. "Sometimes I feel like I'm making it even worse than before," he admitted, looking out the rain speckled window. He avoided looking Lestrade in the eye. Lestrade shook his head with a small laugh. Good on him, it didn't even sound forced. 

"Right. Like you believe that. I've wanted to punch his lights out far less often since you've come along. Even if he doesn't get along with everyone at Scotland Yard, he's at least stopped going out of his way to make everyone hate him." He turned a corner, driving a moment in silence. "Thanks, by the way, for coming along. This case has nothing. And I mean it--we haven't found anything. You could...I don't know..." he shrugged, "Extra eyes and opinions are welcome, at this point."

"Will that be all right? I mean, you don't have consultants, usually. And I'm not even Sherlock." John frowned. Why had his stomach done that strange flip at Lestrade's words? John didn't want to think about it, not now. He was here to distract himself from Sherlock.

"You've been to enough crime scenes with him that no one will ask any questions if you show up. Christ…" Lestrade swore at the car that cut him as it performed an illegal turn. His mouth tightened at the infraction, but he let it slide and shook his head. "And maybe you can persuade him to find an interest in it...if he ever stops being such an ass. I won't hold my breath." Lestrade chuckled again, reminding John how nice it was to have someone to talk to who wasn't an antisocial prick. "You mind if I turn on the radio? It'll be another twenty minutes or so. With this traffic."  

"No, I don't mind at all." For the rest of the drive they were comfortably silent, listening to the quiet music of the radio. It didn’t take John more than a few minutes of watching raindrops rolling down his window before he realized they were heading towards Kensington--the very district where Sherlock had surprised him with dinner the day before. Then of course, he started thinking about what had happened the previous night. 

It was some kind of breakthrough on one hand. Sherlock had proven that he wasn't an emotionless robot. That was great. But Sherlock had also had what was arguably his first orgasm from jerking off with him in the room...giving him a shoulder rub, hadn’t he? Did that mean that Sherlock thought _he_ was attractive? 

Then on the other hand, John could clearly remember (even though he wished he couldn't), that he had been excited, too. But he had been drunk. So did it mean anything? _What_ did it mean? John was at a complete loss and he started to get a headache.

By the time they got to Kensington, the traffic had calmed, and Lestrade finally pulled up to an old stately house, police-taped off. A couple of large vans lined the block, and John could see a few eager young reporters taping segments.  Lestrade flashed him a resigned smile and led them from the car. An officer met them at the top of the drive, and Lestrade had a quick conference with the woman before climbing the steps to the front door. 

"Watch your step." Lestrade offered before heading inside, and John followed closely. Lestrade led him through the old house to a heavy door, a walled in room with no exterior walls. Lestrade gave him a look that asked you ready? And opened the door. James Leed, a former software programmer, slumped against the wall.

John gave a brief nod at Anderson and Donovan but received an unfriendly eyeroll instead. He was glad they didn't ask where Sherlock was. Having a look through the office, John tried to look beyond the ordinary, obvious. Well, there was the victim, with an arrow sticking out of his chest, leaning up against the wall in a pool of his own blood. He thought a moment.

"The door was locked?" He turned towards Lestrade, pulling out a notebook and a pen.

Lestrade chuckled. "And then some. Metal reinforced door, key and data code . Whole shebang. Apparently, this guy was a big security nut. The wife found him earlier today. She said only she had access other than him." He tutted. "She's in a bit of a state, let me tell you." He stuck his hands in his pockets. "She has an alibi, by the way. The house's security tapes. There's one in every room..." He made a face, implying something distasteful. " _Every_ room, except this one mind. She's on them for the last seventy-two hours. Which is how long he's been here."

"He was in here for three days, dead, and she didn't notice...?" John asked, incredulous. He had never heard of James Leed before. The office looked clinical and meticulous. If anything it told him that the deceased was a control freak.

"Yeah. No missing persons report. Apparently it wasn't unlike him to disappear for a few days at a time." Lestrade cast a look about the room. "The skylight's open, but we've had someone up on the roof, and it's impossible to get in through it. There's a cage system rigged around it that we can't even get open. "Let alone fire a crossbow through." He made another face, this one displeased and puzzled.  "Which means that he was shot from in here."

"I see..." John said, but with not much conviction. Locked room cases, they had had a few of them before and John had been puzzled at every single one of them. Sherlock had figured them out more or less effortlessly, and each time John had been majorly impressed. He went back to the corpse and crouched down over it to inspect the wound. "Why a crossbow?" He pondered aloud. Like Sherlock, apparently he also thought best out loud. "I suppose the killer wanted to reduce any noises. Did forensics come up with any finger prints?"Lestrade shook his head. 

"Nothing except the victim's." he turned back to face the body. "Have a look around, you know not to touch anything. I dunno." He shook his head. "This was why I was rather hoping Sherlock would be interested before the body was taken away. Leave it to him to see something other than just a dead software programmer in an office." He rolled his eyes. "I have to call the station. I doubt the whole team will be around for much longer...with no evidence to take back, it makes for a quick wrap up." He flipped his phone. "I'll just be a few minutes." He stepped out into the hall, leaving John in the office to try to see if living with Sherlock had worn off on him at all. 

John hummed a noncommittal sounds and got up. That arrow was no toy, that much he could tell. It seemed rather expensive and professional, too. He would have to look that up... Also he needed to ask Lestrade about a possible motive. Since the Detective Inspector was busy, John walked about the room, noticing a few photographs of a young woman on the desk. 

"Looks nice," he muttered, resisting the urge to pick up a frame. With a sigh he turned, walking over to a marked spot on the carpet. Kneeling down he inspected it, sniffing it and wrinkled his nose. "What's that?"

Lestrade came back a moment later, tucking his phone away. 

"Ah, you found the stain." He laughed, watching John straighten himself up from the floor. "Sent it off first thing, as it was the only thing that didn't look like it belonged. Animal feces. Probably just a rat or a big mouse, judging by the size of it. We're still waiting on the final results, but it couldn't be anything else."

"What is that doing here?" John frowned. It seemed out of place, what with everything being extremely clean. "And that woman in the photos, is that the victim's wife?"

“Yeah. Newly weds. Married three months ago." Lestrade folded his arms and drew his brows together, contemplating the clues available to them. "Had some sort of costumed-affair... Married by Darth Vader." a photo collage on the shelf showed the pair as Hans Solo and Princess Leia, holding hands in front of an imposing cloaked figure. "Whatever floats your boat, I guess." 

John followed Lestrade's gaze, his eyebrows lifting up. "I suppose..." Clearing his throat, John had another long look through the room, his hands clenching into fists and reopening in a restless manner. 

He was uncertain what to do, where to start, whether he got a clue or not. It seemed so easy when Sherlock was doing it, like the man was grabbing a rope and just let it lead a way from one clue to the next until they found the truth. But now all the clues were clattered all over, John wasn't even sure if he got any valuable information or not. What did he have? One thing he could say though was that this case was weird. 

"You think... actually, can I talk to the victim's wife for a moment?" John was good at talking to people. Maybe he should stick with that for now.

Lestrade hesitated briefly, then exhaled and nodded, his hands dropping as he led John out of the study. The rest of the house was not as impressive. The rooms were small, to accommodate the large central room of the office. Must have been an add-on John thought, judging by the detailing on the inner wall. The small sitting room was at the back of the house. It was cozy, but airy. The victim's wife was seated in the window nook, staring out the window, a cup of cold tea on the side table. The female officer looked up as they entered the room. 

"This is Dr. Watson," Lestrade explained, "He'd like to have a few words with Mrs. Leed, if he could." The officer nodded, then her gaze flicked to John as she left. Lestrade sniffed as he turned, his hands in his pockets as he stood in an easy attention. He'd let John lead this. 

"Mrs. Leed, my name's John Watson. I'm sorry for your loss." He put one hand on her shoulder lightly, reassuringly, before he pulled one of the wooden spooled chairs from the table to sit across from her. "How are you feeling?" Even without her replying he could tell that she was pretty devastated. It seemed real to John. But was it? He chose to believe in his instincts rather than applying one of Sherlock's very efficient but also traumatizing and immoral tests. Her focus out the window didn't break, but she breathed a laugh, shaking her head. 

"I'm not feeling too good." Her mouth settled back into a downward line. She was a mousy looking thing with big wet eyes and a bit of a weepy nose--which was a rather harrowed shade of pink on its tip. "My name's Charlotte. Charlotte Leed.” She spun a finger around the long chain necklace she wore. “But please, just call me Charlotte."  Her shoulders shrugged a little, and her brow clenched. 

John had seen police officers consoling people hundred times and as a doctor he should be used to it, but he still felt at a loss for words. 

"Charlotte... Would you mind telling me what happened? I know you told the police already. But I am more of a private consultant, and I'd like to help with a bit of a different perspective..." She swallowed tightly then nodded. 

"James didn't come back here after a meeting on Tuesday--which wasn't strange," She defended, "I always make sure he has an overnight bag packed in his car. I make sure I replace the dryer sheets in his suits so they'll stay fresh." She caught herself. "So they would stay fresh." She swallowed again. "His job sent him away all the time. He sends postcards from everywhere though." She smiled, but only for a second before she caught that too. "But he always rang. In three days, he always rang." She drew a breath, switched her gaze to her hands where she fiddled with her chain again. "So I checked his office. And he... he was _in_ there. And I didn't know." She shook her head, and her face pinched for a moment before she managed another deep breath. 

"There is nothing you could have done for him. If it is any consolation, he didn’t suffer from it. It was over quickly." John said in a low, comforting voice, summoning a tissue and handing it to her in case she needed it. She accepted it, twisting it around her thumb and index finger. John continued, "You said he went to a meeting. I'm afraid I don't understand... Why would you check his office first? Wouldn't it be more likely that to check with his work, to see whether he went on another trip, or when he went home?"

For the first time, her gaze raised to meet John's, but it flicked away almost as quickly. She squared her shoulders. 

"No one was allowed in his office, Dr. Watson. Not even me. Everything of James' work is in that room. He said it was dangerous." Her lip quivered, "He told me...that if he was ever in trouble, I had to get it out of the house. Because it wouldn't be safe." 

That still didn't explain why she hadn't called him at work but went straight to his home office--but John let it slide. Apparently that office, or something in the office, was far more important. 

"Dangerous? Why was his work dangerous? Did your husband have enemies?" John looked up to Lestrade for just a moment, but he just gave him a shrug and came a bit closer. They both seemed at a loss. Charlotte looked up at John again, held his gaze a little longer. 

"You're going to think I'm mad."

 

to be continued...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to every who's left kudos on the story, We're glad people are enjoying it so far! Comments and constructive criticism is welcomed most kindly!  
> xo


	6. Digging the Dirt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Lestrade discover that some things are indeed a little mad, and some things are batshit crazy.

Charlotte chewed on her lip, as if she was trying to consider whether it would be okay to tell John. He held her gaze, just _listening_ , and she paused another moment before starting. 

"James had a lot of... _foes_. Lots of people didn't think that what he stood for was very profitable, but he was very anti-establishment, and the companies that wanted to pay him to design their security systems and code for them were nothing but financial vampires, waiting to squeeze every penny they could from the societies and communities that supported them. When we…" She took another breath, "When we got married, he told me that he didn't think he'd ever find someone that could understand that he was a rebel fighter, and that they would always be after him. He didn't think someone would ever be able to do everything needed to be safe." She smiled in memory, then her attention came back to John. "James was a good person. He only wanted to help people, to protect people. He cared so much for me..." She shook her head, "It was hard sometimes to believe that someone so good would have so many people hate him, but that's what corruption looks like, doesn't it? So I guess James' biggest enemy was capitalism." She shook her head. "Which doesn't help. I know. I'm sorry. I just…I don't know who would do this."  

"All right." John kept his expression neutral, though he couldn’t deny he _did_ think that both Charlotte and her husband must have been slightly mad, and more than a bit over-the-top. It did fit their wedding photo, though. "Did he ever mention a name or two, someone he thought was especially after his work?" 

Charlotte focussed as she thought, she shook her head after a moment. "Not to me. I was an escape from all that." Her eyes softened. It was obvious how much she had loved him. "You know what he would tell me?" John's silent attention was enough to urge her to continue. "That I was the healer to his warrior." She smiled shakily, "Just out of the blue sometimes, no context whatsoever. And I think he was scared." When she looked back to him, her expression was unguarded. 

"He was so brave and could make things happen. His code was...incredible, it was like the entire internet was at his mercy." A slight blush on her cheeks accompanied the smile. "But underneath that, underneath this force that could turn a forum discussion to a protest to a riot, or whatever else he wanted, he was just a little boy who was scared of vampires." She sniffed, her eyes getting a bit sad again. "And he trusted me to help." In all honesty, John didn't understand half of what she was saying, but he nodded anyway. 

"Did he...ever tell you what kind of code it was he created? That might give us a clue on who could have targeted him." Vampires, healers, revolutions--this wasn't getting any easier or clearer. Sherlock probably would have solved the problem already, but John felt as if he was ever more confused 

She shook her head. "It was for the Merryman Fundraiser, a project for them, or it...” She shrugged, “It was the biggest thing he’d even done though. That's all I know." 

Well, that didn't sound too threatening... "Is there anything else you remember? Was James particularly upset, before he left for that meeting? Did he behave differently?" 

"He woke up very early for it. I remember him getting out of bed around 2:30. He tiptoed out so he wouldn't wake me. It was sweet. But the night before he was fine. He wasn't stressed at all."  

"Well then... can you tell me if anything's missing, or odd in his office?" Aside from a general paranoia, there didn't seem to be anything unusual about James' behaviour, so this was leading him nowhere. Lestrade was looking around the room distractedly, as he had probably asked those questions already. John wasn't sure but he thought he also detected a faint look of disappointment on the Detective Inspector's expression. He was not Sherlock, after all...but he'd try his best nonetheless. 

Charlotte concentrated again. "I don't really remember anything…" She said finally, "Except that the carpet didn't line up with the tile grid. He would have made sure it was...he said I'd use it for relative directional instructions."  

At that John's ears perked up. "Directional instructions?"

Charlotte suddenly looked terrified. "Um. Oh... Yes. Directional..." She fumbled with her necklace again, biting her lip. "I was told that if I didn't hear from him in a 72 hour time period, that it meant something had happened to him and the program was no longer safe. I was to walk in, use the grid lines on the floor and proceed across the carpet median five steps west, three steps south, two steps west, and three steps north before continuing west to the desk--where I would...unlock the computer and retrieve it." Her hands trembled. "There's more... but…" her mouth closed shakily.  

"It's all right. Take a deep breath." John watched her closely, putting a hand on her shoulder again and took a deep breath for demonstration. She followed his example and looked a bit calmer. "Please, tell me everything. You want the person who did this to your husband caught, don't you? I am sure James trusted you and you can trust us, Charlotte.What else did he tell you?" 

"I can't tell you what it said exactly, because I can't give you the passwords." She stated, scared but determined. "But I was supposed to remove the file from the computer onto this--" She held up the chain at her neck and a gilded usb key hung as the pendant, for the first time in the conversation, her gaze flicked to Lestrade, "And take it to the statue of Eros in Piccadilly Circus and ducttape it to the seventh mark up on the northwest side, marked with a white cross with a blue eye." She looked back to John, her hands dropping to her lap. "But I couldn't. I just... He was just lying there..." She dropped her gaze again and her shoulders slumped. She glanced back out the window. "You'll probably take it, won't you." She fingered the usb key. "The program... instead of taping it to a statue?” 

"Afraid so.” Lestrade admitted, watching Charlotte pull her necklace closer, “And... likely that too, just to analyze the contents. But if we can we will give it back to you as soon as possible." John exchanged a brief look with Lestrade, who stepped forward and held out his hand. The detective inspector had looked surprised, so John was glad that he could contribute something to the case. They still had no clue on the murderer, though. "Thank you Charlotte, you helped us a lot." 

Charlotte nodded, looking resigned and a little bit relieved. John didn't know if getting her to tell him all this had helped her or not, but at least she wasn't staring blankly out a sitting room window anymore. She reached for her cold tea as Lestrade led John out into the hallway with a hand on his elbow.  

"You sure know how to get people to talk. Want a job?" He chuckled amicably as they turned towards the office. He paused outside. "So...do you think Leed rigged something up…?" His voice trailed off with the question, "That he told her to avoid?" 

"That's what I think," John said, feeling excited, as if on the hunt. He could see it in Lestrade's eyes, too. "Their relationship...well, they seem a bit... special. Clearly meant for each other...” Lestrade made a quick agreeing nod, and they left it at that. 

“Let's check the wall again. If it was a booby trap, the arrow must have come out somewhere."John suggested. It was all starting to make sense. Leed had set up something to prevent his file from being stolen--an obstacle in the middle of the path to the desk that would trigger a hidden crossbow. There must be a switch along the floor somewhere. 

The rolled-back carpet revealed nothing, so they realigned it on the grid pattern of the tiles, counting out the five steps, then continuing forward. Nothing happened. "Do it again." Lestrade urged, "And see if we can hear anything."  

"All right." John took a deep breath, shook out his arms and then took precise steps, straining his ears to hear anything. But there was nothing. "Maybe we should try to retrace the line of flight of the arrow," he suggested, crouching down by the victim and looking back at the opposite wall. 

"Analysis reports put the origin here…" Lestrade indicated in a circular motion with his arm. He stepped up to the wall and tapped on it with a knuckle. 

"Does that sound hollow to you? It does sound quite hollow, doesn't it?" John was with his face at the wall, almost pressing his ear against it, but not quite. He wouldn't want to set off any mechanism. Right now he felt like a little boy, on an adventure trip with his buddy, and Lestrade seemed just as excited. They finally got a clue, a brilliant one and it was all without Sherlock's help! 

"Greg, go stand on the spot again." John said, and moved back and focused on the wall. Lestrade stared at it too, his foot hovering. "Stepping in one, two, three." The tiniest of movements betrayed an opening near the edge of a shelf bracket.  

"Did you see that?" John pointed hurriedly, stepping on that spot again. "There! There it is! That's where the bolt came form!" 

Lestrade stared at the hole in the wall, then to the place where the body had previously slumped. During John's interview with Charlotte, the crew had removed it--not able to delay it being sent to the morgue.  

"But he knew it was there. Why...? Mrs. Leed didn't make him to sound like a suicidal. Maybe a bit touched... but that aside…"  

"He also seemed like a cautious man." John frowned. The expression on the corpse had been surprised, but there was no alcohol anywhere in this room. John's gaze wandered about the immaculate room. The spot on the floor caught his eye again. "What did you say this was again?" 

Lestrade's brow crinkled. "Rat shit." He repeated, not quite following, but desperate to.  

"How could a rat get in here?" John shook his head. It would make sense that maybe, a rat could have set off the arrow. If only it wasn't too light in weight and judging by the position of the spot, the rat couldn't have activated the booby trap. What with the locks on the door it was highly unlikely for a rat to enter this bunker... "No... This is," John walked over to the window in agitation. Then he looked back at the spot, then above to where the light was dangling from the ceiling. "This is batshit."


	7. Of Crossbows and Custard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John returns home triumphant, and Sherlock gets a little more frustrated.

_"This is batshit."_

Lestrade looked up with John, and then back down in a slow moment.

"What did it do? Scare him to death?" Lestrade's eyebrows showed his disbelief.

"Yes--in a way. His wife told us." John explained, "Judging from what we have seen it is safe to assume that he was a man who liked to be in control. You only have to take a look around this office. His downfall was that he was actually afraid of vampires. In the old stories, like the Bram Stoker novel, vampires were able to transform into bats. So what if a bat got into the office through the open window at night and roosted up there, by the light. The light turns on, the startled bat flies around and Leed gets so scared that he accidentally springs the trap..."

The look Lestrade had on his face was familiar. It was the one he had when Sherlock would waltz in and analyze more clues in thirty seconds than all of Scotland yard in a year.John felt a small amount of pride having ellicited the same expression.

"And it was a crossbow…because bolts are stakes. Symbolically." Greg looked back over to the outline of the body. "Bloody nutter."

"Bloody nutter indeed," John echoed, feeling a bit faint. "I think... we just solved the case." It sounded like he couldn't believe it himself. "If that is really batshit, then we solved the case!"

Lestrade looked over at John and for a moment, looked like he wanted to hug him. He slid his hands into his pockets instead, and blew out a sigh.

"Bloody hell, mate. I think Sherlock is rubbing off on you…"

"I hope not," John laughed, flattered. "I'd like to think we solved that all by ourselves... but that's probably wishful thinking." He sighed and leaned on the back of one of the chairs. "I do wish he could see our glorious moment though."

Lestrade chuckled as he picked his cell out of his pocket.

"He'd probably have had it solved looking at the body for three minutes. Smarmy bastard. I'll get a car to take you home, if you want." He shook his head again as the two of them headed for the door. "Bloody hell, John." He grinned, "You're have to admit it though. That was brilliant."

"It was, it was. We should celebrate with a pint sometime," John said, grinning from ear to ear. Greg heartily agreed.

About an hour later he was back at Baker Street, walking up the stairs with a merry whistling tune, throwing up and catching his keys as he entered.

"Did you bring milk?" Sherlock's voice announced from the sitting room, dismissive, as always.

"Nope," John replied, unfazed, taking off his jacket. This was a good day and he wouldn't let Sherlock ruin that. "I solved a case though." He went over to his favorite chair, then looked around the room, before sitting down and grabbing the newspaper. Tomorrow, there'll be an article: The solved case of one very unfortunate James Leed.” He blocked the (rather unsensational) headline in the air. He’d have to work on it. “Mrs. Hudson brought tea yet?"

"No. But there is now a needless amount of custard, if you would like that." Sherlock had an elbow hooked over his eyes, head propped up on one end of his sofa, feet on the other. "Lestrade has hooked you in now too? They must be getting desperate."

John felt pressed to ask why they were having needless amounts of custard, but then he decided that it wasn't important now. This was his moment.

"Maybe, but we still solved the case. And it was a tricky one. A man, shot by a crossbow bolt in a locked room that was inaccessible from the windows." Turning a page of his newspaper, John did his best to sound unbothered. Sherlock was in a particularly nasty mood today, it seemed. Usually he'd at least try to tone down the comments.

"Clearly self-inflicted in some way. Bows are an easy choice for booby traps and rigs due to their nature of release. They're also quieter, which in a neighbourhood like the one _James Leed, computer programmer_ lived in, would be necessary." Lestrade had dangled the same bait earlier. "Boring."

"The reason why he died wasn't boring at all." John replied lazily. It irked him a bit that Sherlock had gotten so far without getting up from his bloody couch. Sherlock snorted incredulously. He pulled his arm down from his face.

"Oh, and you figured that out too?"

"Indeed, I did." John finally put down the paper to show a genuine, proud smile. "It was batshit."

Sherlock finally shifted to look at John. There, finally got his attention. His interest was plain to see--as was his difficulty in expressing wanting to hear about it.

"Oh?" Was what he finally settled on.

"Yes." John picked up his paper again as if it was the most interesting thing in the world. He could hear Sherlock fidgeting on the sofa ever so lightly. And then he couldn't take it anymore. "All right, so James Leed, the victim, was afraid of two things: someone stealing his programs--and vampires.”

Sherlock quietly scoffed at the superstition, but remained focussed on John’s explanation.

“He set up a booby trap in his office, and only gave instructions to his wife for an emergency on how she could safely walk through the room--that's how we found it. He’s got some new program stored on his computer that he’s so paranoid about he’s set up a death-clause with his wife to get the program away to safety. But in this immaculate, compulsively organized office he had, there was something out of place: a stain of animal feces on the floor on the floor under the light.”

A low hum from Sherlock.

“A _bat_ must have flown into his office through an open skylight during the night. When he startled it by turning on the light, he panicked, convinced it was a vampire. Probably in an attempt to escape the 'vampire' or to shoo it away he accidentally stepped onto the mechanism that set off the trap. He left instructions for his wife to enter his office if he was out of contact for exactly 72 hours. That's why she found him 3 days later with an arrow in his chest in a locked room.”

Sherlock's full attention was something tangible, and even from behind his newspaper, John could feel Sherlock deducing every movement he made.

"How did you know he was afraid of vampires?"

"I interviewed the wife and she told me. It's common sense, don't you agree? Just a couple questions and a bit of putting the pieces together and it was all there." Oh it felt so good to be the one with all the knowledge and having Sherlock asking the questions for a change! If Sherlock felt like that every time it was no wonder he got addicted to it. "You missed a pretty interesting case there."

Sherlock narrowed his gaze as he watched John. Something shifted in his expression, and a tinge of colour appeared on his cheeks. He looked away before he thought John would notice.

"You cheated by having the wife tell you. I would have found something else."

"Maybe you would have." John clutched The Times just a little bit harder, but he sounded unbothered. "But that's not the point. We solved the case. In just over an hour. On our own. John-and-Lestrade style." John's eyes shifted over the newspaper up to Sherlock, who didn't look happy. "What did you do?" he added casually, leaning back and studying his paper as if it was actually interesting. Sherlock glared, before pointedly staring back up at the ceiling. Apparently things weren't going his way today.

"My experiment involving the non-Newtonian nature of custard failed." He steepled his long fingers underneath his chin. "Mrs. Hudson came up asking for help lifting boxes from her spare room, and Mycroft has called thrice." He sneered, and muttered "John-and-Lestrade style..." darkly under his breath. "Boring." He announced irritatedly.

"Did you help Mrs. Hudson?" John looked a bit alarmed. Sherlock hated physical labour (unless it had to do with solving a case) and Mrs. Hudson was a sweet lady, she didn't deserve a cranky Sherlock whinging on about it. Sherlock huffed an exasperated sigh.

"What do you think John. Of course I did. She tried to feed me cake." He scowled. "I'm not a monster."

"Alright. Just asking," John placated, folding his paper. He really wished he had some tea. And apparently Mrs. Hudson had made cake... But there were other, more pressing matters now. John's gaze lingered on Sherlock's miffed expression for several seconds, until his voice cut the petulant silence again. "You want to talk about last night?" At first, John was concerned that Sherlock wouldn't answer. He wouldn't put it past him--he could be incredibly (and annoyingly) childish at times.

"Of what aspect of last night would you have me _talk_ , John." Sherlock’s tone was accusing and his expression revealed nothing as he stared at the ceiling.

"Well... I'm asking you if there's anything _you_ want to talk about..." John felt incredibly awkward. Like a fish out of water, and having to talk about this with Sherlock only made it worse. "You feeling all right? About what happened?" John tried to play down the feeling of insecurity and leaned his chin in his hand and crossed his legs. The case and the subsequent euphoria of having solved it had distracted him from the event of last night. But the moment he'd seen Sherlock it all came back and now he couldn't just push it away anymore. Inwardly he hoped that Sherlock would throw him something they could work with, but that was probably wishful thinking... Sherlock's fingers twitched underneath his chin and he huffed again, brow furrowed.

"I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be fine." He got up suddenly, his momentum carrying into a pace in front of John's chair. He stopped just as suddenly, startled by a thought. "You...are worried that I feel uncomfortable having had you there." On reflex, John pressed deeper into his chair and eyed Sherlock as if he was a predator stalking his prey. The prey being John.

"... A little bit," he admitted then, forcing himself to relax. This was ridiculous, he was making a mountain out of a molehill. "I'm worried that it might complicate things unnecessarily. Because, nothing really happened. I mean, it's perfectly normal, things like that happen sometimes, people do it all the time and then they carry on. Neither of us has to feel bad about it, we're still flat mates, still friends. It's okay. I'm okay.” John took a deep breath, then blew out his cheeks “Are you okay?"

"Stop being redundant John. I said I am fine." Sherlock snapped, his eyes narrowing at John's reaction. "You're prattling. You're more worried about it than I am." He pressed in closer, balancing with a hand on the arm of John's chair and leaning in to study John's face more intensely. "You're trying to convince yourself, not me." He discovered, his tone accusing. "But you're the one who pressed the situation! You were the one who--who..." Sherlock bit his tongue, and John realized that this might have been the first time he'd ever seen Sherlock struggle for words. "Encouraged me to...bring myself to orgasm."

"I didn't mean to!" John defended, feeling the heat in his cheeks. "Things just got out of hand. I'm sorry, I'm truly sorry. Had I known it would come to this..." He didn't finish the sentence. This was a royal mess. Sherlock was right, John sought this discussion more to calm his own mind than Sherlock's, but apparently his friend wasn't indifferent to it either. "I just...didn't think it would get to you." _Or that it would get to me_. Watching Sherlock last night, that utterly relaxed expression, the slightly parted lips and then that subtle arch--it had been a very arousing sight. And John didn't know what to make of his reaction towards that. For now he just averted his eyes. "I'm sorry." There was silence for a long moment. John was looking away, so didn’t see the desperate search of his features Sherlock conducted. _Always deducing_.

"You're sorry. Fine." His lips tightened and he nodded sharply. "It will not happen again. Are we finished discussing this?" He looked away from John, his fingers tapping on the sides of his thighs. His phone was out in another instant, trying to draw further away from John. "We still need milk. And those wafers you like." He muttered after a moment, tapping furiously on his keypad.

"You know which wafer I like?" John sounded genuinely surprised. Sherlock didn't deem it necessary to clarify that, and the only response John got was the sharp glare over the top of his cell phone.

Something seemed to be wrong here but John just couldn't put his finger on it, Sherlock had changed the subject too quickly for him to tell what it had been. At least he could say that talking about the issue hadn't solved it nor made him feel any better. If anything he felt as if the tension between them had worsened. The furrow in Sherlock's brow remained as he focused on his screen, sneering slightly as he sent a text. It was probably to his brother. He pocketed the phone again quickly.

"Let’s go out." He announced brusquely,  "Bring your gun, if you'd like."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the patience everyone, we're still writing and getting very excited (as everyone else is too) about the upcoming new season of the series! We should be back on a semi-regular schedule for updates and your comments and kudos are much appreciated, as always. Much love!


	8. Needing Proof

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In what could be an attempt to distract John from the larger issues at hand, Sherlock whisks him away to run some...errands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the kudos on this so far, we're feeling the love!  
> Superkalifragi and I love getting feedback, so if there's something you wanna let us know about the story so far, please drop us a line, and we'll get back to you with chapter updates!  
> Thanks for reading!

"We've got another case?" Puzzled, John got up, but Sherlock didn't deign to reply. Suppressing a sigh, John grabbed the gun from his drawer and followed Sherlock outside. "Will you at least tell me where we're going?" He mumbled, while wrapping his scarf around his neck with some difficulty. 

"No. You might consider not coming." Sherlock quipped, and John paused at that, letting Sherlock get only a few paces before continuing to flank him. 

Sherlock had this annoying habit (in John's opinion) of just assuming he would tag along without explanation. It was made worse by the fact that it was often a correct assumption. Sherlock led them down the next alleyway, cutting across the major streets through the emergency-escape-decorated buildings. John kept up, as was his habit, for the following ten minutes. 

He didn't question as they cut through a fenced yard, opening up to an unkempt carpark with graffitied brick walls of the back of stores. John followed Sherlock as he squeezed between two of the buildings, leading down a narrow set of steps cut into the concrete. John hesitated, wondering if he should scope out an escape route before Sherlock had knocked; seven sharp staccato beats; and the door was opened swiftly. 

An imposing bald man in leather and jeans, his tattooed arms crossed impassively across his chest. His eyes narrowed and he tilted his head to the side. 

"I'll save you to trouble of asking, shall I?" Sherlock cut in impatiently as the doorman breathed in to do just that, "I need to speak with Lorenzo. He's expecting me." 

"Oh, and who might you be, then?" A chuckle, as he sized up both of the men at the door, both of whom were much shorter. Sherlock did not laugh with him. His gaze hardened, and his lip curled slightly. 

"Let's see, shall we? Late thirties, I would say, bit old to be joining the Demon Flyers, aren't you? Did they put you here because you look tough--bet you like this more than having to deliver their coffees and groceries, hm? I suppose that pate of yours might be seen as a threat--albeit an empty one." Sherlock sneered. "If Lorenzo is expecting to see me, why would he tell an initiate like you--who guards the door of the carpark. I didn't ask you to let me in. I told you." 

The bald man seemed to shrink as he slunk to one side of the doorframe. 

Sherlock shouldered past him and walked in like he owned the place, as always. 

"I'm-I'm with him," John clarified, pointing at Sherlock who marched quickly inside the dubious basement. The doorman gave him a strange look that looked very threatening to John, so he made no delay to catch up. He was already wondering if he should regret joining in on this adventure. But then again Sherlock just had proven that he was in control of the situation and John did have his gun. His hand unconsciously wandered to his pocket and the weight of the weapon reassured him. 

Still, the inside of the place was even less inviting than the outside. It was too dark and damp and the heavily tattooed men that eyed them through the grey smoke of their cigarettes was a bit unsettling. Sherlock scanned the room quickly, staring down the men circling the table in the corner until the largest one gave a sideways nod towards the back hallway. 

"I know you're not too enthusiastic about answering questions but would you mind just answering this one: who's Lorenzo?" John asked lowly as he walked beside Sherlock, never letting the bikers out of his peripheral. Betraying nothing to the thugs, Sherlock led John towards the back room. He waited another moment before they turned the hallways corner. 

"Head of the London faction of the Demon Flyers--outlaw biker gang." He answered succinctly. "The man you need to talk to when looking for certain supplies." He stopped as another guard stepped out from the darkness beside the back door. 

"Sherlock Holmes, I'm guessing." 

"Obviously." 

There was a pause, the meathead waiting for a further explanation, and Sherlock waiting to be admitted. The thug laughed suddenly. 

"I recall he did say something about yeh. Right. In yeh go." 

Sherlock directed the tiniest of grins towards John. You see how I did that? Smug bastard. 

The back room's chatter quieted when Sherlock and John entered, and Lorenzo (one assumed) stood and approached. 

"Holmes." Lorenzo greeted, sustaining the 's' with a sinister grin. "And a friend?" 

"This is my Doctor." Sherlock answered, his voice clipped with his own ambiguous warning, and John felt a surge of pride at being introduced as Sherlock’s Doctor. "I haven't come to discuss niceties, Lorenzo. I'd rather we just get to the point." He looked pointedly over Lorenzo's shoulder at the four other men who flanked the shadows of the back room. "If it is convenient for you, of course." His gaze flicked back to Lorenzo, who was clearly searching for signs of intimidation. He found none. 

"Of course. I like a man who gets down to business. Isn't that what I just said, Buckley?" 

"You sure did, Boss." A thick bearded thug was quick to agree. 

"See, what did I tell you. I like a man who gets down to business.” Lorenzo smiled again and his meaty palms clapped John and Sherlock on their shoulders as he slipped between them. “Mister Holmes, Doctor, if you'll just follow me." 

He led them across the room, over to the dim lit bar along the far wall. He stooped below the edge, pulled up a large clear bottle and hoisted three mismatched tumblers from the sink with his fingers. He dropped them ungently on the bar and sloshed the clear liquid over the half-mark of each stout glass. 

"It's the highest proof you'll find, I can guarantee." He grinned again--a wide, used-car-salesman kind of grin, and offered glasses to the two of them, holding his own aloft in a toast. 

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and hummed in response, taking a moment to hold his tumbler up to the light in speculation first. He turned to John, a look on his face that probably meant he was not going to explain what was going on anytime soon, and clicked their glasses together before swiftly downing a third of his own in one go. 

Lorenzo was watching them both, and even John picked up on his surprise when John finished his entire glass without flinching. It took every muscle and nerve in his body to stop him from reacting to the bracing liquid, but then John thought he saw Sherlock give a very small grin at that--it was always good to unsettle dangerous people. 

"It will do." Sherlock announced as Lorenzo knocked back the last of his own glass. "I'll take eight gallons. Have them drop it off to my contact in the Kensal Green Cemetery." Lorenzo might have been shocked again by the amount, but he hid it well. 

"Payment up front, Mister Holmes. Even for you." 

Sherlock sighed. 

"Obviously." His hand slipped out of his coat pocket and into Lorenzo's, a handshake passed the payment between them and Sherlock leaned in to whisper something in the biker thug's ear which made him chuckle. 

"Good. Good business Mister Holmes. I look forward to our future endeavors together." The salesman grin was back, but Sherlock neither confirmed nor denied Lorenzo's suspicions and turned to leave the group of thugs and their leader behind. The doorman was suitably cowed as he let them back out into the carpark again, and even before Sherlock was back up the stairs into the alley, his phone was out and he was madly tapping away at the keypad. 

As soon as they were far enough away from the building and the bikers, John took a deep breath and started to spit out whatever of that horrible concoction was left in his mouth. 

"What the bloody hell was that?!" Bracing himself against his knees, John gave a few coughs that made him feel marginally better, but not much. "And what do you want with eight gallons of it?!" 

"Grain alcohol. About 190 proof. Called moonshine by the colonies. Illegal, of course, which is why I prefer to purchase it instead of distilling it myself. And I only need six gallons. The rest is payment for holding it for me at the cemetery. It's useful when such circumstances arise." Sherlock noted offhandedly, his focus still on his phone. 

"Payment?" John wasn't sure if he could follow. Maybe it was the pure alcohol he had just downed! And of course nobody had deigned to warn him. Sherlock glanced up from his screen. 

"Ah, yes. You'll start to feel that drink in a few minutes. Due to the potency, the amount you drank is often inadvisable." Sherlock expression was drawn into his conception of 'contrite' as he seemed to read John's thoughts. "My homeless network, John. There's a man who will store my ethanol for payment of ethanol. It's quite a tidy transaction." 

"Why did you let me drink that?" With a wince John noted the whine in his voice. His head started to spin. "You could have warned me," he muttered, trying to stand up straight, puffing out his cheeks in a withheld sigh. 

"Your display rather unsettled our host. Much more than I ever could have hoped. I didn’t even have to draw attention to your gun." Sherlock's glee was suddenly apparent, the corners of his eyes wrinkled upwards. "You are a most surprising person, John." He steadied John's arm at the elbow and helped him upright, and urging him forward all at once. "We need to catch a cab. The measure I drank will soon begin to affect me as well." The street wasn't far, and Sherlock's loud call for a Taxi was never long unheeded. The ethanol made the breathless chuckles easier once they were closed up inside a cab and back on their way to Baker Street. 

"I-I feel dizzy," John announced with a chuckle, leaning his hot face against the cool glass of the car window. "What about you?" Instead of being sick he now felt giddy. "Maybe we should keep a bottle at the apartment, it's rather effective." 

Sherlock's giggle was accompanied by a five-year-old's grin. 

"Euphoric, and the thought has crossed my mind." He watched John with delight. "But I don't drink very often...And I would have to tease you relentlessly if you started drinking ethanol alcohol alone" 

"Well you could just change your drinking habits then and join me. You're teasing me on a daily basis already, it won't make much difference," John grinned back goodnaturedly. When they passed by a Tescos, John leaned forward a bit clumsily and told the cab driver, "Stop here. Still need some milk." 

"I'll just wait here," Sherlock started, then caught a look at John's face. "While you…" He trailed off, clearly deducing John's next question from his body language. "John, I will not. You can go in yourself and buy milk if you think we need it so badly." 

With a surrendering sigh John pushed himself out of the cab. It was Sherlock who had reminded him just earlier that they needed milk and now he was being difficult. John shook his head with a smile and went into the shop to fetch the milk. He had difficulties counting his change, had ended up just giving up and using his card and he stumbled back to the cab with his milk carton in hand. At least the cab was still there and Sherlock was still in it. He poured himself back into the backseat. 

"Let's go." 

Sherlock's 'contrite' expression was back on about ten percent which meant he probably felt bad about making John go get the milk alone. Which meant he was learning, good. 

"I would change my drinking habits, but I would have to account for an increase in alcohol intake versus food intake, and the effects on my speed and efficiency would be far too chaotic. But I will happily keep a store on hand if you would prefer that I drink with you on the nights that I am able. If that is an acceptable compromise." 

John stared at Sherlock as if he had grown another head. Sherlock--willing to make compromises? 

"Sure. Sure...that sounds great." Must be the alcohol. "We don't really drink together, do we?" The inferred we drank together last night took a moment to settle in the cab, but neither voiced it. 

"I don't go to a lot of pubs. The connection is implied." The cab pulled up to 221B, and Sherlock passed the cabbie a note and unfolded onto the curb. His smile was still present as he leapt up the stairs, turning on the landing to watch John make his ascent. "A successful walk. We may go so far as to name it errands." 

He opened the door with a flourish for John, but as soon as he followed him into the foyer, his face fell and a furrow twitched between his brows. 

"Mrs. Hudson! I've told you before not to let him in!" Sherlock bellowed, though it would seem their landlady-cum-housekeeper was out, as there was no response. 

Even John had deduced who it was before they ascended the staircase to their flat.


	9. Clarifying Pronouns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Government pops in for a chat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The new season has come and gone, and we must soldier on stalwartly. This story will be borrowing from canon where applicable, but falls in the timeline between Belgravia and the Fall. Casefic and experiments, what more could we ask for during the hiatus?  
> Kudos and comments are warmly received!
> 
> ***

"Brother. How good to see you." Mycroft stood by the window, gracefully leaning against his umbrella, the perfect image of sophisticated, old English aristocratic blood. As always, John couldn't tell if the man was being honest or cynical. "You're late," Mycroft commented with just the tiniest hint of accusation. His time was always precious. John nodded at him and started to peel himself out of his jacket. It wasn't easy. 

"I wasn't aware we had an appointment." Sherlock sneered, crossing the sitting room to snatch the skull up from the mantlepiece. He took a moment to study it's eye socket thoroughly. "Is that what we call these attempts to bully me into working for you while I remark on how much weight you've gained or failed to abandon somewhere--appointments?"

Mycroft’s sigh was heavy, and with the air of infuriated resignation that it always carried around Sherlock. He turned to John.

"I ought to be speaking with you." His eyes narrowed, "Afterall, you solved the case this morning." Sherlock's nose wrinkled in fury as he lifted the skull for further inspection.

"Me?" John pointed at himself and looked through the room, but there was no one else. "Well, I guess I did. Please, have a seat." Pointing at a chair John sat down on the couch. Finally someone acknowledged his achievement! And Mycroft had already heard of it! But that shouldn't surprise John; the man knew practically everything the minute it happened.

"The victim, James Leed, had been flagged as a person of interest due to the nature of the programs he wrote." Mycroft explained, as if John had been that plain to read. "We have been watching him for some time." Mycroft sat with the slow fluidity that the higher echelons of society had, his mouth drawn tight with the mask of neutrality. "Though it seems that Leed's death was not a result of conspiracy, the matter now stands that the program that was suspected to have been in development on Leed's personal computer is missing--deleted after copying. Which presents a problem."

"Because you don't know who did it, or because you do...?" Sherlock muttered to his skull loud enough for Mycroft's glare to find him for a moment.

"The file had not been removed until after the investigation had started." Mycroft explained, and

John watched the exchange between the brothers with fascination. He couldn't help it. These two were just so weird--in a brilliant way, but still weird. John wondered why Mycroft didn't take care of the problem himself. He was practically omnipresent and knew about everything that was going on everywhere. But still, Mycroft chose to consult Sherlock and get snappy replies and insults thrown at his person. John suspected that, in his own strange way, Mycroft did care. As did Sherlock.

"I didn't take it," he threw in, just for good measure. That earned him a chuckle from Sherlock.

"Obviously." Mycroft sighed, sounding too similar to his brother. "But it means that someone involved in conducting the investigation did. Which means, Doctor Watson, we have a leak."

Sherlock replaced the skull on the mantlepiece loudly and rummaged through the stack of papers next to it noisily.

"Which you previously had no knowledge of, but now, due to the nature of the stolen program, means much more than a simple security breach in Scotland Yard." He turned on his heel. "Not interested." He iterated angrily, crumpling one of the papers from the pile. Mycroft sneered.

"Yes, well, I wasn't talking to you, was I?" Mycroft's sharp features turned towards John again, and John thought he detected a twitch on one nostril of his narrow nose. "I'm sure Detective Inspector Lestrade would be very interested in finding the leak, and would be more than willing to help. Since the two of you seem to work together so well."

Sherlock took that moment to upset the entire stack of paper from the mantlepiece, stepping on a few sheets on purpose before leaving the room with a sour look.

John was torn between going after Sherlock to placate his sulky friend and stay with Mycroft out of courtesy. He finally settled for the latter. Sherlock would be just impossible now, whereas Mycroft was actually flattering him. It was a nice change, to be the center of positive attention and have his skills appreciated.

"What do you suggest we do now? I mean, obviously we have to find the leak, but you must have some lead on that," John queried a bit flustered, trying to sound smart and reliable. Mycroft tucked his chin a bit, smiling in a way one could never tell if he was pleased or if he just thought one was an idiot.

"I've heard you're quite good at talking to people, you could start off with that. Lestrade has been informed, though he seemed quite shocked at the allegations that someone on the investigation would go so far as to remove evidence from a crime scene." He lifted a bored eyebrow, "One that my brother was not present at, that is." He schooled his expression again and took a sharp inward breath, "Of course, the point of it would be to find out where the information is leaking to. James Leed was involved in a large network on online vigilantes--or so they proclaimed themselves--and based on surveillance, was beginning to collect interested parties for his latest project only alluded to as the Merryman Fundrasier. I trust this will be enough information for you to begin a search."

"Should do." John straightened and attempted to look confident, but couldn’t help adding 'I hope so’ inwardly. Already John could feel the pressure of expectations that seemed a bit high and suffocating. He couldn’t deny that they thrilled him though. This was his chance to prove to Sherlock that he was a worthy partner. "Anything else we need to discuss?" Mycroft considered a moment, his sharp appraisal of John as tangible as Sherlock’s deductions. It was never comfortable with Mycroft though.

"No. You seem to be as satisfied as ever chasing my brother across the city on his cases. Do try to remember not to let yourself get too distracted. Sherlock has a hard time focusing when it comes to things of great importance." He pursed his lips as he drew both hands to rest on the handle of his umbrella. "He's quite selfish like that. But I can already tell you're going to ignore my advice anyway, so do as you do, John, though I would recommend staying away from the ethanol. A nasty habit."

"How...nevermind." John took a deep breath. Dealing with Sherlock by himself was trying sometimes, but both brothers at once was just a bit too much. Even though John did appreciate the trust that was  put in him. "I'll do my best." He said, nodding his head reassuringly. Mycroft smiled thinly.

“I’m sure you will Dr. Watson.” He leaned forward on his umbrella as he pushed himself up off the sofa. “Oh, tell my brother to answer my texts if he does not want me to have to drop by. I am grieved to think he is unable to comprehend the notion of compromise.” He looked at John from underneath his brow before flashing another ingenuine smile before he crossed to exit, his umbrella tip hitting the floor twice before he descended the staircase to the front door and his presence was lifted from 221b. John shook his head at how it seemed that even Mycroft didn’t know everything.

Mycroft's absence usually made for Sherlock's return and this was no exception. He drifted by the doorway, as if he wasn’t interested at all in what John had been talking about with his brother.

“Vampire lore seems to inspire strange behaviour in many people.” He announced, without introduction and without looking up from his phone. “There are those that would argue they have nothing but a ‘healthy respect’ of them--” he snorted, “Which is, of course, ridiculous. Did you know there is a club here in London where one can order a ‘chalice of blood?’” John did not know that and he turned his head in confusion, an expression of loss plastered to his face.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t follow the conversation.” In the beginning that had frustrated him more often than not but by now he was almost used to it. Still he could see no plausible connection between receiving a job from Sherlock’s brother that had to do with usb sticks and stolen files to...vampires. Sherlock tutted and shook his head slightly.

“Do keep up, John. The people who James Leed was afraid of stealing his files may lead us to who actually did.” He tapped at his phone keyboard. “Even if it is ridiculous for a grown man to be afraid of vampires, the fear may not have been entirely unfounded.” It seemed that John’s revelation had piqued his interest in the case more than he’d let on. “We need only find the proof.” He looked up from his phone finally, “The connection between the forensic team Lestrade brought to the crime scene and this.” He held up his phone to display the screen to John. A club sign reading The Blood Drive dripped in neon red.

Though he was thrilled and grateful that he had a lead a part of him was also somewhat annoyed and John had no qualms about expressing that particular emotion by folding his arms over his chest and commenting, “I thought you had no interest in the case. But you use the terms ‘us’ and ‘we’ as if you were actually part of the team... Which, if I may point that out, you’re officially not.”

Sherlock’s arm fell back down to his side and he rolled his eyes as if it should be obvious.

“I have no interest in helping my brother. I am, however, interested in helping you. If that is unsatisfactory for you...” He turned, heading back towards the kitchen. “I have other experiments that require my attention.” With a sigh John let his arms drop.

“You’re welcome to help. It would just be nice for once if you cared to ask, you know.” Undoubtedly, Sherlock could be the king of passive-aggressiveness. He sighed again. “I suppose I will call Lestrade and ask him to meet us in front of that club.”

Sherlock paused by the arch of the kitchen, clearly trying to process what John had said. Though it was not lost on him that John had also used the term ‘us’.


End file.
